


It's Showtime!

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (TV 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Cartoon-Movie Universe, F/M, Gen, Halloween parties, High School Drama, Obscure Flirtation, Unlikely Friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 12:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8624512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Because, really, her Halloween party wouldn't have been the same without him.  Originally posted on ff.net.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm behind the ball on a Halloween-themed piece, but this is an old piece from my ff.net archive, and after polishing it up a bit, I'm still quite pleased with it.
> 
> This was my first contribution to the "Beetlejuice" fanfiction community, featuring the Ghost with the Most and his strange and unusual lady of the living. Being a fan of both the movie and the cartoon series, I've incorporated elements and characters from both into my interpretation of Lydia and B.J.'s relationship and the antics they get up to everyday. Many have envisioned the bridge between the movie and the cartoon, and this can be read as that, I suppose, though I've tweaked Lydia's age a bit just for the fun of it. Please enjoy!

_"When witches go riding, and black cats are seen,_  
 _The moon laughs and whispers, 'tis near Halloween."_  
~ Author Unknown

****

"For the last time, I said _no_."

Sometime ago, it had occurred to Lydia that normal people do not spend great lengths of time having a conversation with their mirrors. That being said, no one should ever accuse her of being 'normal'. More importantly, few people had less of an inclination to have relationships with 'normal' folk than Lydia herself. Her daily interactions with a reflection, though quite strange and unusual, were (sadly) par for the course.

Especially since the reflection was not hers.

A loud scoff answered her firm resolve: a clear verbal demonstration that the speaker did not believe her for a minute. She didn't need to turn around to know the expression she would find in the mirror would be one of amusement. "So we're back to hostility? C'mon, Babes…I thought we were past all that."

_Past all that_ …one would have thought so. _She_ had thought so, while savoring the reprieve of no ghostly threats lingering about in her home, enjoying the company of the spectral couple who had taken up residence in the attic, and keeping little company outside of the home. Two full years following her thirteenth birthday passed without incident, though not entirely without consequence. School was, undoubtedly, the most dreaded aspect of her week. Hours locked inside a rather stuffy building with a crowd of beauties who viewed her as the strangest of them all and offered no qualms about saying so frequently. She had taken it all with grace and dignity…at least, as much dignity was to be found in regular fantasies about adding Nair to the abundance of hair products stashed away in lockers.

There was one worse than the others: Claire Brewster. Blonde, blue-eyed, perfectly-molded-and-sculpted Claire with her nose so high that Lydia wondered how she survived a rainstorm without drowning.

The first year at school, seated at a joint desk with Claire Brewster had been bad. The second year had bordered on the unbearable, and Lydia had been on the cusp of homicide as she'd stormed into her bedroom one afternoon, thrown herself on the bed and screamed herself halfway hoarse into a pillow. And then she'd heard it.

" _Quite a pair of lungs there, Babes._ "

Her reaction had been something between horror and dumbfounded confusion. The owner of that voice was, first of all, nowhere to be seen. Second, he was supposed to be gone forever. The appalling interlude that had been her impromptu wedding to a lecherous, scheming, and downright manipulative poltergeist had not been—nor was it presently—forgotten, and she'd hoped (for a short while) that she'd imagined it. But a chance glance at her bedroom mirror had proved her quite wrong: he was there, just as she'd remembered. Grime-streaked hair, chalky skin, and he had been smiling at her with all the mercies of a crocodile eyeing a young zebra.

" _Miss me, Lyds?_ "

From the beginning, he’d been quite content to butcher her name as he pleased and saddled her with pet names, all without a care for objections. And there had been objections: a full year's worth of objections. A full year of trying to ignore his presence, snapping at him to leave her alone, throwing an assortment of blankets over the damn mirror to block him out only for him to pop up in her bathroom reflection. At her wits end, she had finally resorted to the most unladylike behavior imaginable for a sixteen-year-old: a barrage of words, all directed at him, the quality of which would have made Delia faint and her father require life support.

His response? A grin bordering on that of a love struck fool and the spontaneous production of a dozen black roses on her dresser. " _I knew you were someone I could relate to, Babes._ "

That was six months ago. She since abandoned all attempts at ridding herself of his presence. Odd, really, how such a short time of his uninvited company snuffed out three years of calling a pox on his name. She now arrived home each day anticipating him to be there, settled comfortably in her mirror and with an open ear for her ranting.

Four days ago, however, her ranting had received an unexpected response.

It was her own fault for bringing up the idea of hosting the school's Halloween party to begin with. She should have known better, but a full-on confrontation with Claire had made her blood boil, and B.J. (it took her no time to realize the impossibility of avoiding his name forever, and since he saw fit to butcher her name without qualm, she decided to return the favor) had a taste for her angry moments. He'd told her once that she looked sexy when she wanted to lynch someone. She'd told him that he had issues.

A bet: that's what it came down to. A bet between the school's prima donna and the school's unanimously-elected outcast as to who could throw the better Halloween party. Claire was all-too confident that she would win, ergo she was going to throw hers first and then see "who wanted to show up" at Lydia's. In a fit of insanity, Lydia had accepted. 

And then she'd told _him_. That was when things had taken a sharp turn for the unexpected.

He wanted to be let out. Summoned into the real world for the primary purpose of providing the students of Winter River with "the ultimate Halloween party". Her immediate response had been rejection. Unsurprisingly, they were still having this conversation four days later.

"This is not hostility," Lydia returned briskly, lifting her head momentarily from homework to find her undead visitor/almost-husband/whatever-the-hell-he-was-now smirking confidently at her, "this is a repetition of what I've been telling you for the last three days in the futile hopes of getting it through your thick skull."

He stretched his arms, cracking several joints in the process with a sound that made her cringe slightly. "Been done that road with you before, Lyds," he reminded her, "We both know you'll crack eventually."

"Afraid you're going to be disappointed this time, B.J." She stated dryly, closing the textbook and setting it aside with a low groan. “My resilience is impenetrable.”

He stuck his tongue out briefly. "You're really gonna let what could be the most memorable party in history go down the toilet?" A dramatic sigh, "You're killin' me, Lyds."

Lydia gave him a lingering smirk (he’s always stared a moment too long when she gives him this look). "I think someone might have beaten me to that." Momentary flexing of the limbs brought feeling back into her feet, and she slipped off the bed. "I can throw a Halloween party myself, thank you."

"Ha!" he barked out a laugh, " _You_? Try that fashion-failure stepmother of yours, Babes. We both know once she gets wind of this, _she_ 'll be the one running things."

He had a point, but she wasn't about to give him full satisfaction—even if the idea of Delia running things made her feel ill. "Your point?" she responded instead, dragging a brush idly through her hair. She'd become accustomed to feeling out any lumps or tangles in her hair by touch; she didn't have much a choice when he was obscuring her entire reflection.

His answer was cut off by Delia's voice, announcing dinner. Lydia sincerely hoped it wasn't meatloaf again; the last time meatloaf had made an appearance, it had been cooked too long and sculpted into a small cow. The visual combination hadn't settled well with her stomach and had made her seriously consider veganism.

"Later, B.J." She said smoothly, gliding out of the bedroom with only a momentary pause in the doorway, "And _don't_ pop up in the dishwater again."

***

It seemed the overall opinion of Claire's "Halloween Extravaganza" wasn't favorable, but such a consensus had yet to effectively deter the blonde from her established opinion: she had already come out on top, and there was no point in anyone trying to do better. Lydia probably could have ignored Claire more effectively if the entire day wasn’t riddled with snide remarks and self-important declarations. By final bell, her blood pressure—on a scale of one to ten—was circling a forty-five.

Drawing in a deep breath, she made for her locker with no small relief that the day was over. Unbidden, a memory ghosted across her inner eye: Lydia lazily combing through her freshman yearbook, Beetlejuice whining about being left out of the fun (because looking through the yearbook is _such_ a crazy-wild time), and then, after she relocated against the mirror to allow him a full view, Beetlejuice's commentary about how Claire looked like a piece of phlegm he'd once found under his boot. Or was it between his toes…?

A giggle bubbled up her throat, stifled only by a hasty bite to her lower lip, but her shoulders still quaked until the amusement ran its course. It felt nearly a lifetime since she had a proper laugh; she’d forgotten how terribly pleasant it was. 

“Oh _Lydia_ …!”

"Yes, Claire?" she replied with a determined gaze inside her locker and a grumble under her breath. So much for her cheery mood.

"I haven't heard anything about _your_ party." The blonde propped herself against the nearby locker, "Then again, if you'd like to forfeit now, I _might_ be inspired to spare your reputation and settle things quietly."

"Your compassion is deeply moving," Lydia set her books carefully inside, forcing herself not to handle them with unnecessary force (there’s no need to punish _them_ , after all), "but as a matter of fact, I am throwing my party tomorrow night, and you're welcome to attend."

The other crinkled her nose, but then produced a beaming smile. Lydia could practically see the arrogance dripping from both corners, "I think I just might come, Lydia—I could use a good laugh!"

There was a quiet crunch, and Lydia looked down to find the broken remnants of her pencil locked in a tight fist. "You do that, Claire!" she called after the blonde. A moment passed in silence, and then a thin smile lifted her mouth as she quietly added, "You'll get more than a laugh, Princess… _that_ I can promise."

***

Delia was ecstatic at the thought of throwing a Halloween party. Too ecstatic, and Lydia swiftly nipped enthusiasm in the bud with a firm comment: _she_ will be handling things, personally and without assistance. To pacify her stepmother, Lydia assigned her to food catering—under the condition that both parental figures would be out of the house for the duration of the party. It worked, with her father's protests left unheeded by a delighted Delia, and Lydia was left in peace to send out invitations, prepare decorations, and clean the house.

Finally, at one o'clock the following morning, she collapsed on her bed, exhausted and absent one very important item: her costume.

Unsurprisingly, Delia had made multiple offers to construct her "the perfect outfit". For the simple sake of her dignity, Lydia refused. But now, bone-tired and out of ideas, Lydia hadn't the faintest idea as to how she might conjure up an outfit in time. The costume stores were a joke; unless she wanted to look like the eroticized version of a fairytale character or cover herself in an obnoxious assortment of tulle and glitter (and she didn’t). At this point, her only option was a bed sheet and a serious bout of humiliation.

She muttered something rather vulgar under her breath and rolled over. Her closet was a short distance away, doors parted to reveal its contents. No inspiration came immediately to mind: it was just a collection of school uniforms and black. Black, black, and…

…red.

Her sheets were flung unceremoniously aside as she launched herself out of bed and jerked the doors wide. Fumbling briefly in dim light emitting from her bedside lamp, her fingers found lace and tulle. Without a second thought, she pulled the foreign garment free and into view.

Her (almost) wedding dress, just as she remembered. After four hours of negotiating her way out of the zipper-less item, she hadn't possessed the energy to toss it and instead had shoved the dress to the back of her closet without intentions of retrieval.

Carefully, almost reverently, she laid the dress out on the bed for a proper examination. The color was absurdly gaudy, and there was an obnoxious amount of tulle smothering both shoulders and skirt. But underneath, there was something else…satin? Yes; a quick touch confirmed it. There was a layer of satin skirts beneath the abundance of tulle. And the lace, though outdated, gave the dress a tasteful accent which simply begged to be uncovered.

There was no doubt about it: the tulle had to go.

An hour's worth of snipping and hacking away with fabric scissors left her with a satisfied expression and a knee-high pile of tulle on the floor. Beneath the mess existed a fascinating combination of lace and satin which, combined with the color, was unlike any other. More importantly, it would be similar to no other. A small triumph, but a victory all the same.

A deep sigh met the air while she settled down on the bed, careful to leave the dress undisturbed even as she passed an idle touch over it. Perfection. Who knew a total disaster of a wedding would have salvageable results?

Her last passing thought, as exhaustion finally stole her away, was that one way or another, tomorrow was going to be one night no one would forget.

***

"Yes, I have a costume." Lydia said calmly, casting a smirk over her shoulder, "And no, you can't see it."

The reflection in her mirror did a thoroughly dramatic swoon and flopped down to the curved base, "Babes! First I'm not even invited and _now_ I can't give a thumbs-up to your get-up?"

"Just why, pray tell, do I have to have your stamp of approval?"

He opened his mouth, and she promptly cut him off. "Admit it, B.J." She said knowingly, "Your curiosity is getting the better of you, and being denied satisfaction drives you simply wild."

"I deserve the right to approve or disapprove." He sniffed haughtily, "Of course, if you'd just let me participate…"

" _No_ , B.J."

"Babes, _c'mon_!" he plopped to his knees with hands pressed to the glass. It was astonishing how one so visually unappealing, in every possible way, could manage a look which bordered on downright-pitiful (yet, somehow, endearing), "Let me out! I'd make it scary! You know me…I've got _scary_ down to a science!"

Lydia paused, mid-step, en route to the mirror, blanket in hand. Her head tilted slightly to the left, then back to the right. Then, she shrugged with a coy little smile. "That you do." She agreed, and threw the blanket over her mirror.

***

"Lydia!" Delia's voice was like a poorly-tuned church bell, "Your friends are arriving! Enjoy yourself!"

_Friends indeed…_ Lydia scoffed as she made final adjustments to her costume. A thigh-high slit in the satin skirt was a last-minute alteration to grant more flexibility. Black tights preserved her modesty, and she was granted some modicum of height with heeled boots (her favorite pair, fashioned straight out of the Victorian era). An hour’s worth of attacking her hair with the straightener finally tamed it into something presentable. She rather liked the way her face was framed in feathery strands: a vintage clash of white skin and black hair, with an abrupt introduction of red lace at her throat.

She felt elegant, refined, and _oh_ so strange and unusual.

The living room furniture was rearranged to accommodate a larger population than normal, and it buzzed with excitement as her fellow students congregated. Per the invitation, girls had been allowed guests of the opposite gender. As such, Claire was cooing over a sandy-haired boy who looked like a magazine cut-out in the attire of a fairytale prince. Claire herself sported the attire of a beauty queen: an image ripped from a New York headline.

"Oh, Gerald, they're gorgeous!" she declared, and from her place on the stairs Lydia could see her coddling a large rose bouquet, "I am the _luckiest_ girl to have someone like you."

Lydia swallowed back a hint of bile, sidestepped the crowd without notice, and slipped into a quieter corner to think.

_Lucky…_ what did it mean to be _lucky_ with a guy? Well, of course she knew the vernacular definition of "getting lucky," but that wasn't a true answer to her question. In the rare moments she thought to consider this matter with any degree of seriousness, Lydia often thought a "lucky" relationship, while perhaps not entirely woven from storybook romance, should have more substance to it than red roses and sugar-coated promises that would ultimately be broken.

A cynic's view, but she’d overheard one too many hysterics over the past two years to believe otherwise. Each time, the tears were shed by a devastated classmate weeping out her broken heart. "The perfect guy" had turned out to have the major flaw of wanting to "explore his options".

Ironically (and perhaps inappropriately, circumstances considered), Lydia couldn’t help but smile. Here she was, surrounded by classmates with foolish notions of romance, throwing themselves at boys who wouldn't give them the time of day, and she had the embodiment of undead annoyance residing in her bedroom mirror with full intentions of hanging around, despite her every attempt to encourage the contrary.

The thought didn't disturb her nearly as much as she once thought it could. He was different from the other ghosts, perfectly content to forgo any traces of humanity and embrace all that was weird, strange, and more often than not, downright disgusting. He could simultaneously be annoying in his persistence, aggravating in immaturity, terrifying in the manifestations of his powers, and comforting in her moments of distress with a heaping bout of sarcasm and crude humor.

He wasn't like the others, but then again, neither was she. And, for better or worse, he'd become a constant in her life, one of—no, maybe the _only_ she had.

Black-tipped fingers tapped against each other nervously to match her pacing in the corner. A thought was steadily taking form: a terrifying notion with consequences outweighing the benefits maybe a little too much. Her father and stepmother surely couldn't have forgotten him. The Maitlands would be horrified to know she, innocent little Lydia, had summoned him of her own will. They'd expect her to never speak his name again, and if anyone found out what had been transpiring in her room the last six months…

"Though I know I should be wary…" she murmured, half-conscious of speaking, as her thoughts whirled frantically, "Still I venture somewhere scary..."

Life wasn't worth anything without a risk, right? Admittedly, this was probably the biggest risk she could take. And yet…living in and of itself was always a risk, and the thought of staying safe no longer appealed to her.

Slowly, her mouth curved upward. He called himself the Ghost with the Most. Maybe it was time to put that title to the test.

Her stance became confident, self-assured in her decision, as she raised her voice just slightly, "Ghostly haunting I turn loose," a chill settled in the air, and she wondered idly if her guests could feel it too. It sent tingles up her spine. Made her heart race with something that was definitely not fear.

"Beetlejuice," she whispered, the air becoming very thick around her, "Beetlejuice," there was a distinct rumble outside that sounded like thunder, and she could almost feel his anticipation, waiting for one more time…for her to make three times the charm.

"Beetlejuice!"

Lightning split the sky. Thunder shook the very foundations of the house. The lights flickered violently before abruptly falling dark, and she heard startled yelps and shouted confusion just around the corner. Again, lightning and thunder, this time with a burst of chilled wind that showed its favor to her while passing through the already-unnerved crowd. In the darkness, it felt as though the whole house abruptly shifted; the atmosphere was wrought with panic and uncertainty. A more perfect setup had yet to be conceived.

And then there were two chilled hands on her shoulders, a chest to her back, and a wholly satisfied purr in her ear. "It's showtime, Babes."

***

Everyone was abundantly aware of tension in the air: fear was running amok, and those with dates were tucked protectively against their sweethearts. The only calm soul in the room was the one who entered on light feet, a vision in red drawing immediate attention with the candle she held in hand. Suspended from the ceiling, little tea candles flickered to offer poor illumination in the darkness. Lydia smiled, imagining the expression tweaked dangerously in the surrounding shadows.

"Sorry about the lights, everyone." Lydia called, and all eyes hastily swiveled towards her shape, "I guess we have some unexpected guests after all."

"Unexpected guests?" Wendy, a short and plump girl near the left wall, spoke nervously; her voice quivered terribly, and Lydia imagined her small hands were the same way, "W-who…?"

Lydia only blinked, her smile never faltering, "Why, the ghosts, of course. You all didn't think I hosted a Halloween party for the food, did you?”

Silence followed her inquiry; she barely swallowed back a satisfied smirk. “This house…" she set her hand solemnly upon the nearest wall, "This house has a presence."

Wendy's curly-haired friend Juliette nearly squeaked around her words, "Is it…is it a _friendly_ one, Lydia?"

A shrug, "Sometimes," she murmured thoughtfully, "and sometimes not. It depends."

The response was unanimous, "Depends on _what_?"

Every eye was fixated upon her, watching every idle step taken around the room; the candle flickering calmly in her hand, "On whether or not you dismiss its existence or not. Those who believe, are favored…protected, even. Those who don't…" her eyelids lowered slightly in accordance with her tone, "aren't welcome here."

A tiny girl with a shock of red hair, Prudence, stepped a little closer to Lydia, as if proximity might grant protection, "Does the ghost like you, Lydia?"

_I'll say…_ she smiled to herself before blinking it away. "I respect him, Prudence. I respect that this is his home as much as it is mine. We established a… _understanding_ some time ago." The smile returned as she considered the truth of her words.

"Do you go on dates with him too, Lydia?" Claire's voice cut over nervous murmurs as she strutted forward with hand on hip, "I don't know who you think you're fooling, Deetz, but your tacky little ghost story isn't going to scare _me_!"

"Are you sure about that, Claire?" Lydia returned, unmoved by doubters. "You don't want to make him angry. No one likes him when he's angry."

The blonde sniffed loudly, tossing her hair over one shoulder, "And what happens when _you_ dismiss him?"

"I don't." She answered, her dark eyes narrowing slightly, "And I suggest you watch your tongue, Claire. I don't tolerate doubters any more than he does."

"And _why_ should _I_ be scared of _you_ , Lydia Deetz?"

Now she really did smile, and she noticed a few people shivered. Shadows and candlelight must conspire to create a truly terrifying image. "Because he listens to me, Claire." She murmured; there was a rather intoxicating sense of power being in her element, and she reveled in it. "I'm the only one who can call him out…and he always comes when I call." Her smile grew as she allowed the words to sink in, nearly a ripple of growing terror cast over the crowd. "He does _anything_ I ask of him."

There it was: a widespread shiver running unchecked as her words lingered in the air; even Claire's bravado seemed to have momentarily been shaken, and Lydia just savored the sensations. She didn't doubt the truth of her words, not for a moment. She just chose not to acknowledge, more than likely, she would be willing to do the same for him.

Her cue was noted by the unseen, and so it began.

From the darkened rafters came a haunting sound: raspy, deep-throated, bone-chilling chuckles growing louder with each passing minute. Then, chuckling transformed into cackles, the likes of which would turn a grown man's limbs into jelly. The previously-widespread group abruptly tightened into a petrified little cluster of wide eyes and trembling figures. Claire took a nervous step backwards, casting her blue eyes around before summoning her last bit of defiance. 

"Alright, Deetz," she scoffed, "where's the radio, or whatever you're using to make this whole thing up?"

Lydia smiled sweetly, "I'm pretty good with making scary decorations and good sound effects, Claire," she admitted, "but I'm afraid there are some things I can't make up."

"Like what?"

Her eyes lifted to the ceiling directly above her as she lifted a single finger in the same direction, "Like _that_ , for instance."

For a long, long minute, no one dared move. And then… a distinct rattling emitted from the shadows, not unlike that of a snake. Then, the soft hiss of a serpentine body slithering about, creeping out of sight, but certainly within reach of any who dared venture too far outside the protective circle. Closer, closer…its presence seemed to favor Lydia as she stood perfectly calm in the room’s center. _Hiss, hiss, hiss._ A shape shifted and coiled around the one who had summoned its presence. _Rattle. Hiss._ A vision of dark scales began to loom from the shadows: a long and thick body illuminated only by candlelight. And Lydia only blinked as she was tucked close to the unexpected visitor, its tail coiled around her feet as it drew nearer.

And then, a face of exaggerated proportions, ghastly green-tinted skin and bulging yellow eyes, dropped down into the full cast of golden light. Thin lips pulled upward to reveal a mouth of long and sharp teeth set in a leering grin. Time took a momentary suspension as the face rested itself near Lydia's shoulder and a massive body of scales came into full view. And then…it spoke.

“Boo."

***

Lydia gave her head a light shake, ears still ringing from the eruption of terrified screams which had preceded a mass-evacuation from the Deetz residence. The lights returned as though never tampered with, and she was able to take stock of the remaining mess. Nothing too drastic, though she imagined Delia would be quite upset that her spinach rolls were left untouched.

Idly, she gathered up some discarded cups and plates, then set them down on the nearest table. She would clean up later; her father and Delia weren't due back until tomorrow morning. Almost eight hours of peace and quiet still lay ahead of her…what a glorious thought.

Or…maybe not so peaceful and quiet.

Smiling, she lifted her gaze towards the ceiling, where a vision in black-and-white pinstripe was loitering in mid-air, wearing a thoroughly-satisfied smirk. "Alright, I’ll admit it." She said, loosely folding her arms with a coy smile, "you made this one heck of a party, B.J."

"Told you so." He grinned, stretching out both arms like a content cat and cracking his knuckles, "But don't hang up your dancing shoes yet, Babes. This party's just gettin' started!"

An idle snap of his fingers, and music began to fill the entire house of its own accord. Chairs rocked to the beat, the decorative tins Delia set in the hall began clanging and bouncing against each other, and candles ascended in a scattering of small flames levitating in open air. Another snap, and the overheard light fixtures were spinning wildly in place.

_Shake, shake, shake, Senora, shake your body line!_   
_Shake, shake, shake, Senora, shake it all the time!_   
_Work, work, work, Senora, work your body line!_   
_Work, work, work, Senora, work it all the time!_

He bent his body in half with a dramatic bow, playful (and cocky) grin in place, and swept out a hand. Giggling behind fingers, Lydia dipped into a curtsey, “Charmed,” and offered her hand in return. The floor left behind, thin air became her new stability and dancing stage.

This wasn't a normal life, she knew, as their bodies began to move in sync to the music's wild pulse, but she had a feeling it was the beginning of a very interesting friendship.

_Jump in de line, rock your body in time!_   
_OK, I believe you!_  
 _Jump in de line, rock your body in time!_  
 _Rock your body, child!_


End file.
